Freddy's Lover
by Luv 2 Write Romance
Summary: My take on if Freddy had a lover before he was burned to death. Rated M to be safe. No lemon. Note: the fact that he had a wife and kid doesn't exist in this story.


They were a regular Bonnie and Clyde only where Bonnie received no recognition due to Clyde's protectiveness. Freddy was a young adult, eighteen to be exact, when he was murdered and was seventeen when he met the love of his life and his afterlife. She was what the little town had referred to as a mixed breed. The town had Blacks – though few of them – and had Whites, but she was the only one who came from a Black mother and a White father. She was a pretty, little thing, presumed a good girl – considering her father was a priest and her mother was a pious woman. But despite her religious background, her parents could feel that there was something not quite right about her, like she only so much as needed to dart her brown, almond-shaped eyes in the wrong direction and – in a flick of long, glossy, black hair – she'd be on the path to Hell. So her life was very sheltered, only being able to look outside a dusty, cracked window in the attic as her way to look at the outside world that constantly moved on without her. Her childhood was a simple one, having tea parties with her teddy bear Damien – seeing as she had no real friends.

"That's a nice name," her mother said with a smile.

"It means devil," Lily, the young girl, had said while her mother left with her warm expression turning to one of worry. Needless to say she never saw Damien again, and she was mad. It started off with little things – her insanity – tiny bits and pieces that were just big enough to be noticed and make you wonder. Things such as: staring at you with a big, empty, expression that thinly veiled a mask of hatred and appearing everywhere you are and disappearing when you look away. She did things subtly, just enough to give you a haunting feeling, a creeping paranoia, a slight slip of your own sanity, or a questioning of your sanity or lack thereof. Her parents weren't quite right after that. Neither was their daughter. Sometimes when she was alone, she'd smile to herself, finding some sick, twisted pleasure in her parents' torment.

"Mom," she said a good few years later, giving her mother a start, "Why can't I go outside?"

"Maybe when you're older, Precious Lily," she said putting her sewing down.

"I'm seventeen," she said.

"Then would you like to go to the store with me, Lily?"

"Very much."

"But you mustn't leave my sight." Lily smiled.

"Yes, mother." The tone was friendly but held so many sinister undertones. The voice was her own and held no possession, but it could have for the shudder it sent down her mother's spine.

**Lily's POV**

Mother had my hand in what was almost a death grip. She pulled – almost dragged – me through the aisles. Something clearly had her on edge more than I. Call me… insecure, a little crazy even, as I felt a pang of jealousy run through me. Even the cashier we had seen upon entering the store was fidgety and nervous, clenching and unclenching his hands, swiping at the sweat that beaded on the shiny dome of his bald head, and flushing tomato red. He'd run his sweaty hands down his khaki pants and let out a heavy breath, trying to manage a smile to my mother and me. Now as my mother hurried to put cans of corn in her shopping cart, I watched her speed up and start to hyperventilate slightly.

"Is something wrong, Mother?" I let displeasure – however more or less genuine it was – coat my voice. She looked at me, and I thought calmly and quite satisfied that there went another bit of her insanity. Suddenly, for me unfortunately, something seemed to still her in a state of fear even _I_ couldn't manage to get her in. It was as if she was frozen when her movements stopped so suddenly – her breathing, can grabbing, maybe even her heartbeat. She reached for my wrist, ready to drag me away again, but I "conveniently" turned away to see a young man. No, he wasn't quite a man yet. He gave my mother a sinister look – clearly this look wasn't new to him – with a naughty smile. I felt my mother staring at him, frozen the way a bird freezes when it looks a snake in the eye. She must've seen him rounding the corner of the aisle and wanted to get away before we were spotted.

He then casually and coolly leaned against the shelves of food. Then his gaze shifted to me, and everything but my heart rate stilled, but rather my heart sped up. For maybe a second I just stood gazing at him before a slow, seductive smile that conveyed my sudden want for him spread across my face. His grin widened and his eyelids drooped, clouded with a lust which I'm sure mirrored my own. I wanted him.

My mother, clearly realizing the jig was up, grabbed my wrist and led me past him to the front of the store to where the jittery cashier waited. Fumbling with cans and produce, he took quite a bit of time checking us out. All the while I glanced around, hoping to see the boy again. I turned back around and huffed. Suddenly this outside world wasn't quite so exciting anymore. As the cashier scanned the last of the cans, the boy emerged from the aisles. His hand brushed against mine. I felt a weight in my hand. It was small and barely there, but I felt it and clutched it in my fist so it wouldn't slip through my slender fingers. Gently, quietly, I un-crumpled the little piece of paper to see a messy scrawl of, "Meet me behind the convenience store tonight at 11P.M." I smiled as I watched him saunter away without looking back.

I clutched the note until I was safe in my room with the door locked and read it and re-read it, each time being filled with a giddiness I'd never felt before that buzzed in my elbows and the backs of my knees and filled my chest with bubbles and disabled my ability to sit still and filled my mind with questions of the mutual attraction between the mysterious boy and me that appeared like a bolt from the blue. What was his name? What power did he clearly hold over my mother and the cashier from the store? Who exactly was he?

Supper ended at 8:30P.M. I went through the usual routine before bed, but changed the routine, turning my room light off and waiting at the top of the steps at the edge of the hall, waiting for the light downstairs to go off, which proved a tedious task. I crouched/squatted and eased my back against the wall, straining my ears to hear the hushed conversation clearly not meant for my ears. But I only caught bits and pieces such as: asylum, prison, Amanda, no good, and Frederick Krueger. I wasn't sure what to make of it and there's no use trying to make sense of non-sense. The light turned off and I darted, sliding slightly, praying my light, sock-padded thuds wouldn't be heard as my feet touched the wooden floor. I scurried under my covers just as I heard the top step creak. They moved silently down the hallway, stopping briefly in my doorway before moving on. I listened for the soft click of their door and waited about ten minutes. Earlier I cut a pleated, khaki skirt I owned in half and wore a blouse a visiting aunt my parents weren't fond of gave me. Her name was Aunt Lo, and she'd said, "For anytime you feel the need for some adventure. Don't tell your parents." She'd given it to me in my room, out of the way of my parents' critical eyes, and I hung it up in the back of my closet, never thinking I'd wear it but not telling my parents because I like the thought of having my own little secret. The blouse was extremely thin and tight, and I thanked whatever god out there that existed that I had what my mother cursed: ample cleavage. I tried it on and began buttoning it up stopping just high enough to let a smidge of cleavage show, hinting at what lay below, and the only way you'd get to see anything was if the shirt came off. I shimmied into the skirt and some thigh-high socks and slipped on a pair of Mary-Janes. It had a very church-girl look – had it not have been for the clinginess of the top and the shortness of the skirt.

At 10:45P.M. I snuck downstairs, skipping the creaky top step and maneuvering around loose floorboards. Once outside I felt exhilarated and began to walk down the dirty sidewalk passing bars with drunken men hooting at me, alleyways with stray cats, closed shops, and the occasional bum or two. The convenience store was just down a road in the forest lit by streets, about a ten minute walk from my house. I arrived at the convenience store with little trouble finding it – having drove past it the day my mom took me to the store – and arrived at 10:55 – 10:57-ish. The boy was already there.

"Couldn't wait to see me?" I asked, approaching him. He was leaning against the red brick in the back of the convenience store looking down at his feet when I'd arrived. He smirked and glanced at me from the side, and I watched it spread to a naughty grin. He turned his head to the side, looking me up and down – slowly trailing up my legs, pausing on my chest. I turned slowly, making sure he saw everything before giving him a come-hither look. Instead he raised a hand with a glove with sharp glinting blades and motioned for me to join him. Any girl in her right mind would've turned and ran, but I haven't been in my right mind since I was eight-years-old.

"I still don't know your name," I said, walking slowly towards him.

"Are you scared?" He asked, running the flat of the cool, metal blades along my cheek. He removed his hand and began rubbing his middle and index finger together, mimicking the sound of scissors opening and closing in a rapid motion.

"No. Should I be?" If anything, I was excited.

"I haven't really given you reason to be. Have I?"

"Most girls would run at this point." I reiterate, not in my right mind.

"What keeps you here? Why haven't you run?"

"Insanity keeps me here. I drove my parents' sanity – at least some of it – at the price of my own. I like causing torment."

"Most guys would run at this point." He threw back at me.

"Most guys don't have bladed gloves, much less use them when they flirt. So why do you have them?" I said as he ran the blades down my arm.

"I hate kids," he grinned. I smiled. So we were both a few birds short of a flock.

"Do you hate me?" His non-lethal hand found the small of my back while the blades found their way to my face again.

"I hate kids, not crazy bitches," he smiled.

"Fuck you," I said, leaning closer.

"Sounds like fun," he said before kissing me, "I'm Freddy, by the way."

Overall, our entire relationship was rushed. We had sex the first night we were together and about every other time we were together, but Freddy's actions were starting to catch up to him. I felt partially responsible, having helped him murder two children, not that he'd let any evidence of my presence show. He never wanted me to be caught or suspected. We were never going to meet anyone like each other, so naturally when I turned eighteen – he having turned eighteen the week before – proposed. We were young and in love and planned to leave town before Freddy was thrown in jail, but we were too late. Something the police did or didn't do sprung him and we had planned not to waste time and leave town the next day and get married in another state.

I tossed and turned in my bed. When you're insane, nightmares occur from small common phobias that are usually related to childhood incidences, assuming those incidences aren't the reason you're crazy. But I had my first nightmare of my only fear which had been developed only a month and a half ago.

_I ran, trying to run past the mob to get to Freddy as he was chased into his hide out, a boiler room where frequent murders and moments of intercourse occurred. He held the door determined not to let the angry mob in. And suddenly I was in the room with Freddy. He couldn't see me or hear me or feel me, and this, in turn, made me feel completely and utterly useless. The force on the opposite side of the door stopped after a moment and I wondered if the mob had given up so easily. But a deep pit of dread in my stomach told me that this was far from over. Flames engulfed the room an d Freddy and I could only watch as the love of my life burned to death._

Everything cut to black and the rest of my night was dreamless. I woke up, and everything felt too normal and yet felt in complete and utter chaos. Ice rested at the base of my spine and slowly crept up, wrapping around my veins, constricting my stomach, stopping my heart, chilling my bones, frosting my skin, freezing me to the point where it hurt no matter how tightly I pulled the blankets around me. I jumped at the soft knock on my door.

"Lily, it's time for breakfast."

"Yes, Mother."

As I cleaned the dishes I listened to the idle chatter of my parents in the next room over.

"It's a shame," my father's low bass voice.

"Ha! Lord forgive me, but the only shame was it didn't happen sooner! And Amanda… poor Amanda Krueger committed suicide when he was convicted." My mom's alto voice.

"Are they burying him?"

"Only the just deserve a proper and respectful burial. Frederick Krueger's remains can rot in that room, and his soul can burn in Hell!" I dropped the plate I was holding.

"Lily?" My mom called worriedly, "Are you-" I assumed she was going to say alright or okay, but at this moment, nothing was alright or okay. The door slammed behind me as I tore down the road only in my nightgown.

I was right, but I had never wanted to be more wrong. The door that led into the old abandoned warehouse was weakened," I concluded as it fell under the feeble pressure of my tiny hands. A puff of ash rose up as the door hit the ground. Inside was nothing but black. It wasn't dark, the window – every last one of them – was broken and light filtered in through jagged holes and protruding shards. No, darkness was branded into anything that hadn't been reduced to a pile of ash, scorched black pipes and rails. Tentatively I stepped around pieces of broken glass and twisted metal, making my way to the concrete steps in the back of the front room that led down to the boiler room. It was dark figuratively, almost literally – were it not for the small windows lining the edges of the tops of the walls. It was dim, very dim and I may not have noticed anything were it not for Freddy's glove glinting in what little light there was. I fell to my knees next to the ash and glove of my lover, screaming at no one and cursing the name(s) of those responsible.

"Lily!" My mother had followed me and brought my father, some men and women of the town following.

"Get away," I said numbly. The cold, vine-like ice in my body was gone and was replaced with a feeling of falling through a bottomless pit.

"He got what he deserved," one of the men spoke, others nodding in agreement.

"I loved him," I gasped as the reality of the situation hit my body and began to send shudders through my spine and tears to my eyes.

"Lily?" My father.

"A month," I moaned, holding myself and rocking back and forth.

"What?"

"We've loved each other for over a month. We were going to be married. I'm engaged. I _was_ engaged."

"Come, Lily," my mother urged. Wordlessly, I did as I was told.

Late that night, as only a crazy woman in love would do, I snuck out of the house in my mom's wedding dress with my engagement ring on my finger and an old dagger my great-grandfather owned when he fought in a war. I returned to the boiler room and laid down next to Freddy's remains and slit my wrists. Painful though it was, I couldn't have cared less. I just felt my life slip away. With every passing second my body grew heavier and colder, starting at my finger tips and slowly spreading. My eyelids became heavier to the point where I could no longer open them, so I lay there feeling my body go numb.

I opened my eyes. What was this place? It was a white nothingness. I looked down at myself. I was still in the wedding dress and ring, holding the dagger I used to kill myself, with two bright red gashes adorning my wrists. Suddenly a portal-like hole opened up, and I could see a young woman dreaming. Normally, I would not have cared, but the dream was a memory of her in the mob that killed Freddy. A love for a love would be fair. Using the bond she shared with her child, I went into her daughter's dreams. Torment was still my favorite game to play. She ran to me in her dream, not noticing the dagger.

"What's wrong, young one?"

"He's after me!"

"Who is?"

"A man with knives on his hands! Please, please don't let him get me!"

"One, tow, guess who's coming for you?" Despite his disfigured skin, I recognized Freddy as he approached us.


End file.
